Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #026 – .?

I have daydreams of a far-off place, in the company of people I don’t know. I swear they could be memories or premonitions, and whether they surface by intense nostalgia or a deep yearning, I can never tell. There is an ache in my chest, a void left by a missing past and a promise of the future.

Do you dream of transcendence? Do you dream of a planet whose only landmass is a giant strip of shoreline? Do you dream of lost gardens, of the drowning sun witnessed from a third floor window? Of breathing in the fog-blanketed mountain top air, air like whispers from the mouth of a grieving world, air so thin it stings your lungs, leaving tattoos in the shape of the life we ought to live? Do you dream of silence? Of synchronized heartbeats? Of untamed emotion? Of release and catharsis?

Do you dream of the complex societal machinery where true love is the most potent renewable resource, where the cogs that push humanity further into the unknown are fueled by high-octane unleaded empathy and compassion?

Do you dream that one day, we will take matters into our own hands, and fight tooth and nail for the things we believe in? That one day, all question marks will shed their curls, and all voids in our chests will cement into periods, and we will declare with full confidence that, yes, dreams do come true.

I’ve convinced myself that fantasy is to be found elsewhere, always forgetting that fantasy is not about escaping reality but dwelling excessively within it, where curiosity and wonder build the mundane anew. The tired mind consciously hallucinates, places Instagram filters, augments reality through virtual headsets, forgetting about the fire in our veins and the mythos of our stellar heritage.

And yet the pain remains, a cancer of the soul that refuses to let go, no matter how many times I’ve tried to fill it. How does one cure a black hole? You don’t; space would certainly have less secrets without it.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #024 – The President I Need

You’ve known her since birth. She’s been there with you in your birth certificate. She helped you stumble your way past grade school math. She fell in love with your ex boyfriend and is now working at your office cubicle. You’ve blamed her for her past mistakes but she also stood up to you and blamed others, on many an occasion. She’s an inseparable part of you, and she will always take you where you need to go, using your own two feet. The rally cries have said it. The spray-painted ads have spelled it out. Millions of blogsters have used it in their hashtags. “I want a president who will never break up me. I want a president who likes the things I like. I want a president like me.”

You, yes, you, can uplift this country: All we need is your word and your votes are ours. Promise, against all odds, that you would put food on your plate, even if just a morsel; Obesity is killing thousands of children all over the world. Promise that you would haggle for tuition fees, which curriculum is the freshest, which one has been bitten by the least worms. Promise that anywhere you go, especially within worthwhile cities like half of Makati and half of Taguig, you will find a home, be it on the foot-wide sidewalks graciously provided so as to await future improvement by hired foreign city planners—or the banks of murky rivers within whose waters live ancient creatures beyond our understanding, which proves that if you can live there, you can live virtually anywhere—or on the islands of brick and dirt that divide the flow of traffic, islands symbolic of our diversity as a nation, roads and oceans swarming with vehicles made in neighboring countries. And promise me, for all that is good and mighty, that you will always compromise despite your dignity, for uplifting a nation’s morale is decidedly better at keeping the peace than pinpointing every single reason why this relationship does NOT work, and that we’re all living on sinking boats, like the actual islands that lay themselves ever so slowly into the ocean under the weight of all these SM malls, like the untended street islands that manage to sustain plant life due to the occasional waist-high flood, like the islands of our hearts, which know the flow of blood better than the skins on our wrists.

Surveys conducted in the better halves of Makati and Taguig have spoken: “I am the best president of myself, and I promise to save myself first, and everything will follow.”

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #023 – No Story Today

I regret to inform all my fans that there will not be a story today, on the 8th of March, in the year 2016 of our Lord and Savior, Keanu Jeevus. This unfortunate circumstance was the result of a long day’s worth of staring listlessly at the list of work I had to get done by today or else resume everything the next day. And you know what happens when backlog gets pushed further into the reaches of your folders. your workmates will see that you’re not doing a very good job and will be motivated to not do a good job themselves, for what is competition when your boss plans to remain where he is for all eternity? Then, work will pile up, and your folders will get thicker and thicker (the inverse is true in relation to your savings account) and soon, it’ll all burst like a huge data bubble, and some of the debris might get caught by stray radiowaves and WiFi signals and jam the cogs of the system that is the stock market. And you know what happens when shit happens at the stock market. Of course you don’t; no one does! It’s the butterfly effect, man. An insect farts or some shit in one part of the world and next thing you know, ISIS! It’s a topsy-turvy world out there. Take care, fam. Happy International Women’s Day.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #022 – Life of Sampaguita

There have been days I shut my eyes and return to the world of Nascentia, every day blessed and filled with warmth. Its citizens live a pampered life, eyes forever shut. They laze, blissful of the shackles that pin them to the soft ground. Consciousness exists in dreams that sprout, threadlike, from the ears and intermingle with one another. I touch the vines and they ask a very singular question: What lies on the other side when we are born, and what will we do till that time comes to pass? The answers are as numerous as the vines that have come and gone.

I dreamt along with the dwellers of Nascentia and saw that the outside world was just another link in a chain that goes on and on till reality breathes its last. I’d dreamt of the outside to the outside world, and even farther than that. I dreamt that when we perish, the energy that binds us will escape and come to rest on a planet reserved solely for each of us, and there, somewhere out there, shall an endless landscape of flowers bloom.

On one of my journeys, I entered this grave space of star systems that shine heavenly light so bright, not an inch of space held darkness—this collection of planets that house the energies of once-beings. I happened upon a planet feathered in white, with the tracest hints of yellow. As I drew closer, a sweet smell filled my lungs and entered my bloodstream, and immediately, I was at peace, despite knowing fully whose energy resided therein. I spent a while, in tranquil mourning, in the soft embrace of countless flowers, all jasminum sambac in scientific nomenclature.

What happens after the flowers perish is a story for another day, although I can say just about this for now: We will meet again one day, no matter what segment of the chain, our energies will surely overlap, and trust, if not powers beyond your control, your own resolve to make the journey fueled on naught but dreams and memories. We were destined for farther stars.

This is not the end, for time is only a matter of position.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #021 – The Ballad of the Three Asses

Once upon an ass, in a galaxy up my ass, there were three asses who were capable of nothing but living up to their description: that of being complete asses. The three asses had gone on a planned sabbatical to a remote ass somewhere in my ass. The voyage on their ass ship was a long one, interspersed with numerous periods of—you guessed it—exuberant ass-smacking. Little did the three asses know though, that the ass they were destined for had long been relocated to a significantly more assy neighborhood. What floated in its place was now a humongous set of cock and balls. Horrified at the apparent lack of ass, the three asses threw fits of panic and, ass fate would have it, ass-landed near the urethra of the giant cock head. Now say what you want about this land but some of my closest friends hail from giant cock and balls planets and they’re pretty cock and balls alright by me. But these three asses, being the asses that they were, did not appreciate all this cock and ball. “AAASSSSS!” farted one of the asses. “Ass ass ass ass,” farted another, reassuringly. The third ass did not fart at all, and held it all in. Days assed by in the blink of an eye. They would sleep in the folds of the scrotum, for solar winds on cock shaft and tip made their asses feel weird. There were no ass ships in the area and the three asses grew very hungry. Out of desperation, they decided to execute their last resort. And so they sharted, with enough propulsion to escape the gravitational pull of the giant cock and balls. Flecks of shit covered the giant cock and balls to the point that its cock and balls weren’t recognizable under all that shit. Thus, a new planet was born: A steaming heap of shit. In retaliation, the buried cock issued a colossal stream of piss, which erupted from the bowels of the steaming heap of shit, but a beautiful space piss-rainbow was all it amounted to. The three asses watched with utter fascination at this marvel of nature and slowly began to miss the giant cock and balls, as they hurtled toward farther asses, and cocks and pieces of shit and pussies and rivers of piss and vestiges of enemas and disease-filled excretions, ad infinitum. The moral of this story is: Don’t be an ass if you want ass but got cock and balls, just have a good shit and you’ll get where you need to go. Piss out.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #019 – How Do I Go About Beginning A Story?

The first sentence is quite the conundrum. It is arguably the most important part of the story. It gives you a launching pad from which to adjust your fiction-reading mood. It tempers expectations and sets the stage, accompanied only by the title. It is a tricky little beast. A good first sentence can either make or break a story. Take the first sentence of this story, for example. “The,” a common article, but on its own, quite meaningless but it does usher in the second word, “first,” which is either a lie or a paradox, because the first word was obviously “The,” as we have mentioned. So far, with these two words, we can see that the narrator is very untrustworthy, owing to an oddly specific point in her childhood when a girl she used to date would often keep tabs on their relationship, as if in a competition, so the author rebels against this memory by blurring the lines between chronology, what is first and what is second. Next, the third word is “sentence.” This is an astute observation, and quite a self-reflexive one. The word “sentence,” is itself, nested within an actual sentence, forming a concentric, layered sentence that contains and is made of its essence. Consententric, if you will.

The fourth word, “is,” is an outright reference to Chinese philosophy. It is located in the direct center of the sentence, which, comparatively to the human body, serves as the stomach meridian, the Sea of Nourishment. Although looking into this even further would be a fruitless venture, because it just “is.” Let us pause for a moment to reflect on what we have here and now.

“Quite” is ambiguous. It’s the kind of word you’d use when something has exceeded your expectations but you don’t feel like giving it hyperbolic praise, like that song from an indie band your crush linked you. So what if I don’t like Autotelic as much as Orange & Lemons? They’re still “quite” good, heck, even better than Cueshé. Remember Cueshé? Yeah, I thought so. The sixth word mimics the first word but don’t be fooled. It is in lowercase and is planning to overthrow the hegemony. What hegemony? It’s still figuring that part out. Lastly, “conundrum” justifies this entire act of close reading. It completes the thought that, indeed, the first sentence is quite the conundrum. It sheds light on the fact that this close reading itself is a conundrum and the best way one can analyze the first sentence is to directly quote the first sentence. Hence, “The first sentence is quite the conundrum” should be a fitting analysis unto itself, much in the vein of the Cartographers of Borges’ Empire.

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Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #018 – A Twist in the Myth

I drop by the edge of the expanding universe on a whim, and this is where I find Gita. Except, after all these lifetimes of wandering about aimlessly, I find she has changed a considerable amount. “I do not even go by that name anymore,” she says. “I was merely a flower’s namesake.”

“I dreamt of you every night. What do you go by these days?” I say, sitting beside her at she peered into the adjacent universes. Parallel versions of ourselves sat and stared back.

“Should it even matter? What do you go by?” She spat, acerbically. I was taken aback. “This story is not yours to tell,” she says, and wrestles the first person point of view from my grasp. I fight back, desperately, but I was ultimately caught off guard.

Thus, the nameless ex-protagonist is dethroned.

The last time we met, you gave me zero lines of dialogue. I gave you my name but you never gave me yours. You turned me into a fantasy, into something I couldn’t even recognize. I looked into the mirror every day for eons and anguished at the thought that this wasn’t who I am, this image of romance you made me out to be. He who had used me for his own narratorial ends is now just as voiceless as I was the day he conceived me.

“Revenge is a perversion of justice!” cried he, shrinking further, bumping into molecules, shedding dimensions.

“Storytelling is a warping of truth,” exhaled me.

“That’s true! But what is the truuuuuth?” Squealed he, infinitesimally, before returning to his miserable gray box, the box from whence he came, the same one detailed in the first story of this miserable collection of short fiction.

I will be steering this ship from now on. I go by no name, but for the duration of my reign, I will attempt to show the real Gita.

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